


Legacies

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: Strange Bedfellows [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boarding School, Crossover, Gen, Harry Potter Next Generation, Hogwarts, Kidfic, Magic, Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Al Potter meets Isabel Santiago. And Isabel Santiago meets Headmaster Severus Snape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legacies

**Author's Note:**

> Someone had to find out about Snape’s past somehow. And did you really think he’d let his little protégé go to school anywhere in Mexico? He hates that place.
> 
> A word on Snape’s portrait: As he wasn’t there to pose for it, we had the idea that its personality was created by use of the memories Snape gave to Harry, along with the donation of the impressions and recollections of his students and fellow teachers. Naturally, given that there were so few of his memories available, and that he was such a private and solitary man who didn’t really get along with hardly anyone, the memories donated were largely one-dimensional and colored with the perceptions of the donors—so even this effort yielded an incomplete picture. So, if he seems a bit OOC here, a little more angry and prone to shouting than one would think, this was a deliberate mistake on our part to reflect that fact that Snape was dead when his portrait was painted, so the painting just isn’t _quite_ right.

Being made Head Boy was bad enough, just with being forced to endure his brother’s endless ribbing, Al Potter reflected as he dropped to the ground to avoid being caught in the face with a _Furnunculus_ Curse, without nearly having his hair hexed off twice a week during the course of performing his duties.

It was Longbottom and Shacklebolt. Again.

He had been walking to class that afternoon, minding his own business and pondering whether or not a long detour down the Charms corridor, and possibly being late to Transfiguration, was worth maybe seeing Evelyn Stebbins—maybe even saying hi to her—when a sudden yell and a flash of light down an adjacent hallway had shattered his harmless daydreams and sent him sprinting to its source.

And that was why he was now facedown on the stones of the hallway. Again.

“What is going on here?!” he roared over the racket, a rhetorical question solely for the purpose of quelling the fighting. It didn’t work. 

Well, it worked enough, he supposed; the combatants paused just long enough for him to launch himself to his feet, grab his wand, and block the next errant spell that came his way.

He assessed the situation, and was appalled to realize that there was another student caught in the crossfire— _again._ If nothing else, couldn’t they at least leave the rest of the school out of their spats?

The little girl couldn’t have been more than a First Year; she had her wand out and seemed to be trying to put up a shield of some kind, but Al already knew that she’d be no match for the blast of magic that Shacklebolt had just sidestepped and was now arcing toward her.

Al didn’t think; he simply dived. “ _Protego!_ ” he bellowed, as he landed rather painfully on his knee between her and Longbottom’s spell.

His shield spread outward, covering them both, and he saw Longbottom’s eyes widen as her own spell went ricocheting back towards her, and in trying to dodge, she landed flat on her rump.

Al stood up, the First Year safely behind him, and glowered down at the two of them. “Fighting in the hallways is one thing,” he said stonily, “but almost hexing an innocent bystander who is too young to defend herself is quite another!”

The pair actually managed to look ashamed, which was saying something, as generally neither one of them was particularly contrite after one of these set-tos of theirs. They looked so ashamed, in fact, and so pathetic, what with the carrots growing out of Shacklebolt’s ears and the hives that seemed to be spreading on Longbottom’s round face, that Al couldn’t stay too angry, and he sighed wearily. “Alice—Alastor—honestly, you two—can’t you stop this?”

The angry glares from one to the other clearly said no, and so Al just shook his head. “Fine, then—get to the Hospital Wing, and if I so much as hear that you even thought about fighting again, I’ll take fifty points from the both of you. And as it stands, I’m reporting you both to the Headmistress—for magic in the hallways, for fighting when you’re clearly been told to stop, and for being careless enough to let another student get caught in your crossfire.” He fixed them both with his steeliest glare, which he personally thought was none-too-good, and said, “If you two keep letting yourselves be ruled by anger, you’re going to end up hurting the wrong people.”

The two shuffled their feet for a moment, and then started off in the direction of the Hospital Wing, and Al could hear them bickering quietly under their breath as they went. He rubbed his temple tiredly, and then remembered where he was. He turned, and there pressed against the wall behind him was the little First Year.

_Merlin, they make them smaller every year_ , he thought wryly. “Hi,” he said, trying to sound friendly, as from the way that her face was turning an alarming shade of red under his gaze, he guessed she was a bit shy. “I’m Al Potter—er, Head Boy,” he said, gesturing to the somewhat abused badge on his chest.

She nodded, but just stared at him, and so he prompted, “What’s your name?”

She went even redder and toed at the ground, tugging on her yellow and black tie. “Isabel. Isabel Santiago,” she said, her voice an odd blend of Northerner and Spanish.

“Well, Isabel, I’m going to have to ask you to come up to the Headmistress’s office with me,” he said. At her alarmed look, he quickly added, “Not that you’re in any trouble, or anything—defending yourself, I think, is grounds enough for an exemption for the ‘no magic in the hallways’ rule.” He paused. “Incidentally, you look like you were doing a pretty good job.”

Isabel blushed harder, and Al went on, “It’s just that you’re a witness, and those two get in so much trouble with duelling that there’s no way we’ll get a straight story out of either of them, but you can tell the Headmistress what happened.”

She looked up and nodded again, and so he did his best to smile reassuringly as he put his hand on her little shoulder and steered her up the nearest staircase towards the Headmistress’s office.

She didn’t say a word for the entire trek; the silence was broken only when they reached the Headmistress’s office and nearly ran into the woman herself as she came out, looking harried.

“Hello, Professor,” Al said politely.

“Shacklebolt and Longbottom again?” she asked, and he nodded tiredly. “Isabel here saw it; she can tell you what happened.”

The Headmistress sighed. “I just heard what happened, and was on my way down to the Hospital Wing to have it out with them. You two can just wait up in my office,” she said, gesturing to the still-open door behind her, and Al nodded again and waved Isabel in before him.

They rode the spiralling staircase upwards, emerging into the familiar circular room lined with portraits, and Al directed the timid girl to one of the overstuffed armchairs that sat in front of the large desk.

She all but leapt into it and sat perfectly still, staring at the floor and playing with the hem of her sleeve.

Al sighed, his gaze roaming restlessly ‘round the room, his eyes flicking involuntarily to the portraits of the most recent former Headmasters— _his_ portraits, as he’d always felt as a boy—that dozed just behind the desk.

He bit his lip, and then looked back down. Little Isabel was watching him, and when he caught her eye, she turned red and looked back down at her hands.

“It’s all right,” he said kindly. “You’re not in any trouble, I promise—and don’t worry about squealing on those two or something.”

Isabel didn’t look up, and he was suddenly aware of what he’d just said. “I mean,” he back-pedalled, “you’re _not_ squealing, or anything. They’re always starting something with one another—this is nothing new.” He paused. “They deserve what they get—especially when they involve innocent bystanders.”

Isabel just nodded, her face still red, refusing to look up from the floor. Al stifled another sigh—what on earth he was doing with this job, he would never know. He scratched at the back of his head, reflexively if uselessly flattening the bit that stuck up back there as he cast his eyes around again, the silence deafening. “You know, I really am rubbish at this authority figure thing,” he finally said, giving her a crooked smile.

She looked up then. “Oh, no—I think you’re doing wonderfully!” she said, before her cheeks went pink again and she looked studiously back down at the floor.

Al blew at his wayward fringe. “Well, that’s one of us, anyway.”

“I’d say two of us, Master Potter.”

Isabel looked up in surprise; Al followed her gaze to the wall. Headmaster Dumbledore was awake, his eyes bright, beaming down at him.

Al felt himself breaking into a smile in return. “Hello, sir,” he said.

The painted blue eyes twinkled at him. “Here on disciplinary action again?” he inquired.

Al grimaced. “Yes. It’s Alastor Shacklebolt and Alice Longbottom again. They absolutely will not pass up a chance to have a go at each other. I don’t envy my replacements as they get older.” He snorted. “They’ll probably have to start dragging them out of broom cupboards in a few years.”

Dumbledore chuckled, and Al grinned, before remembering himself and turning back to Isabel, who was watching the exchange with interest. “Oh, sorry—this is Professor Dumbledore—Headmaster when my dad was at Hogwarts. Uh, Professor, this is Isabel Santiago—she’s a first year. Hufflepuff.”

Isabel stood up and bobbed a little curtsey. “Hello, Sir,” she said very seriously. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Hello to you too, my dear. Good things, I hope?” Dumbledore asked, sounding amused.

The tiniest of smiles twitched the corner of her little mouth. “Mostly,” she said, her dark eyes bright, and the portrait chuckled in response.

“You’re quite right not to listen to young Master Potter’s disparaging remarks, my dear—I have yet to be let down by anyone in his family,” he said fondly, and Isabel nodded solemnly, much to Al’s embarrassment.

There was a contemptuous snort following Dumbledore’s words, and as Isabel gave a rather violent start and looked around, shocked, it was with a sort of sinking feeling in his stomach that Al looked to the right of Dumbledore’s portrait.

Headmaster Snape was, by all appearances, still asleep, but given how often Al had unconsciously studied that particular painting whenever he was in this office, he could see the sneer curling the painted mouth.

Dumbledore looked to his left with an expression of wry amusement. “Be fair, Severus—you’ve said many times that both of the Potters in your experience never failed to give you exactly what you expected of them.”

Black painted eyes opened, managing to glitter spitefully on the canvas as if still wet and alive, and Al fought the urge to squirm, as he always did under Professor Snape’s scrutiny. Dumbledore’s gaze was penetrating, yes, but Professor Snape’s eyes seemed to run you through, leaving your legs waving uselessly in the air as he pinned you to the floor with the force of his glare.

“Oh, yes,” he drawled, at last (thankfully) turning his gaze from Al and toward the portrait at his side. “I suppose when I hold them to the lowest of standards, I will only rarely be disappointed.” He sneered down at Al, who shifted uncomfortably. “I will have to disagree with your previous assessment, however, as there have been many times when Potter surpassed even himself in his basest of mediocrity,” Snape said smoothly.

Al had nothing to say—he never did, not even in defence of Dad. Professor Snape made him intensely nervous.

And it wasn’t as if Snape wanted to hear anything he might have to say anyway.

Al looked away, ill at ease, and his gaze lit on Isabel. She was sitting up straight, her head tilted back, her mouth slightly open, and her expression was one of stunned confusion as she listened to what promised to be yet another one-sided sniping match between the two previous Headmasters.

“Is having your portrait made one of those instances?” Dumbledore asked blandly, and Al nearly groaned—why did _that_ always have to come up when he was here? It provided a perfect segue for Snape to start in on his old, familiar tirade with regards to the _other_ tribute Dad had felt it necessary to give the man.

Snape seemed to swell within his frame upon Dumbledore’s words, and Al braced himself. “It is undoubtedly one of his finest moments of smug, arrogant, ill-conceived self-entitlement that I have been forced to endure!” he hissed. “I never wanted this position in the first place, you manipulative old bastard, and now I’m stuck hanging here for the rest of eternity to be regarded at some sort of martyr to the cause—” here he favoured Al with a look of profound disgust—“and to be gawked at by empty-headed students!” He swung ‘round on these last words to fix Isabel with a look that would have shrivelled a scorpion.

She closed her mouth with a snap, opened it once as if to speak, and then closed it again, apparently thinking better of it. But she didn’t look away; Al had to admire her nerve, but it wouldn’t last long, he had no doubt.

“ _What?_ ” Snape snarled down at her when his glare failed to make her avert her gaze. “ _What_ are you staring at, you impudent brat?”

She blinked, licked her lips, and then asked, “What happened to you?”

“What the devil are you talking about?” the painting demanded, now sounding annoyed as well as angry.

Isabel’s eyes never left the portrait on the wall. “I know—I mean, I read about you. That Voldemort murdered you. Over that wand. But how—how did he do it? How did you die?”

“Hasn’t Saint Potter spread that information all about as well?” Snape asked bitterly, and Al’s stomach twisted. Isabel shook her head. The painted lip curled. “I had my throat torn out by a great bloody snake, thanks to _him_ ,” he said, jerking an accusing thumb to the right. Al winced—Dumbledore actually flinched—and Isabel covered her mouth with her hands. “And let that be a lesson to insolent children who go poking their noses into places they don’t belong,” he added nastily, and then settled back into his chair, scowling, and closed his eyes.

Within seconds, he was apparently fast asleep once again. Al wasn’t fooled, but he certainly didn’t try to draw him out again. Dumbledore looked wearily regretful; Al met his eyes for a moment, and then turned to look at the girl in the chair.

Her hands were still clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide and shocked in her little face. “Hey,” said Al, moving to stand next to her. “Don’t mind him. He’s always like that to everybody.”

“I’m afraid that events tended to conspire against Severus for most of his life, whether of his own making or those of others,” said Dumbledore quietly, and Al heard a dark mutter from the other painting, but it didn’t speak again. Isabel just looked up at him, wide-eyed.

Al wanted to say something, to tell her not to be upset, but he didn’t know what to say, and it didn’t matter, because just then the Headmistress came in. And by the time that she’d tiredly extracted all the information about Shacklebolt and Longbottom’s fight, all the portraits in the room were once again sound asleep in their gilded frames.

When they were dismissed, Al followed the little girl back down the revolving staircase. At the bottom, she looked up at him, went pink, and quickly turned to go, but Al stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

She was so much smaller than himself that he had to hunker down to be on her eye level, which he did, and he smiled as best he could. “Don’t be upset by Professor Snape, now,” he said. “He was a hero and all, but that obviously didn’t make him very nice—and no one will dispute that. Not even my dad,” he said wryly.

Isabel gave a small smile. “I—I’m not upset,” she said. “Just—just surprised, is all.” She bit her lower lip, looking pensive. “I think I’m going to go write to my uncle,” she said, almost to herself, and then looked up, met his eyes, turned a furious red, and said, “Well—goodbye!” and then scuttled off.

Al watched her go, bemused, and shook his head as he turned in the opposite direction to make his way to Transfiguration—well and truly late now. He had to respect her courage in the face of that miserable old crank, but a painting was one thing—a living professor was quite another. Really, though, he was glad that the little ones like her didn’t have to face the real deal, not after the stories he’d heard—not the ones about his heroism, but rather the ones about his classroom persona. She may be tough now, but that poor little girl wouldn’t have lasted two seconds under Snape’s tender mercies.


End file.
